Daughter of Mystery (51 page)

* * *

Margerit had arrived before her at the dressmaker the next morning. Barbara greeted her as warmly as the audience and propriety would allow. “I’m sorry about yesterday. Fate conspired against us—I was invited to dine by Duchess Annek and an invitation there might as well be a command. She’s rather different from what I expected. Remind me to tell you about her.”

And then it was off to the back room for Mefro Dominique to take all her necessary measurements and those for the waiting tailor as well. Margerit was uncharacteristically quiet so Barbara filled the space with what nothings might be heard by anyone. “Are things settled again at Tiporsel? If you send to me again at the palace, write a letter don’t just send a card. The pages are incurable gossips and I don’t care to have your name bandied about and your notes read by all and sundry.”

“Oh,” Margerit said more warmly, “was that what the seal was about? It seemed so terrifyingly formal.”

“It’s going to be hard to escape that. If I sneeze, there will be formalities.” She shrugged. “I’ll become accustomed to it, I expect. I always thought the baron rather enjoyed every little thing being a ritual but perhaps he too was just accustomed.” He would always be “the baron,” never “my father,” she realized. He had never been her father in life and it made no sense to use the word when speaking of him now.

The measurements were done and they returned to the room where bolts of fabric were piled ready for her inspection. “And what does the Mesnera need today?” the dressmaker began.

“Everything, I’m afraid.” Barbara saw the woman’s eyes light up at that. “I have almost nothing suitable for my new estate. But keep to what’s simple and elegant—nothing too frivolous or fashionable. I won’t be wearing a new gown to every ball. Make me a few things that will last a while and do for most occasions.”

“But Barbara,” Margerit urged, “I want you to have what you want, not just what you need. Don’t worry about the cost.”

Barbara ventured a brief caress to Margerit’s cheek—the sort of gesture any close friend might make. “I’m grateful for your gift, but I need a style I can maintain. It’ll be a long time before the Saveze estate can keep me in the latest fashion.” She smiled wryly. “At least I’m already thought odd enough to carry it off. And speaking of which—”

She beckoned the tailor over and began explaining her notion of what he should provide. Riding clothes, of course. Just because she could manage a sidesaddle and skirts didn’t mean she intended to do so. And some things in a mixed style: not entirely masculine but suitable for active pursuits. Mefroi Perkin was stiff and skeptical at first but came around to the challenge.

In the end, between the two of them, an order was left for perhaps a dozen outfits, plus such incidentals as couldn’t be salvaged from her previous wardrobe. A few to be delivered as soon as might be and the rest within a week.

To prolong the visit, Margerit’s carriage took them back to the palace by an unhurried route. The first few minutes were given over to kisses. But then the questions could not be contained.

“But Barbara, how…why…? Did you expect any of this?”

“Of course not! I swore to you, Margerit, no more secrets. I’m sorry about the baron’s letter; I know it was wrong to keep that from you. But I wasn’t certain—not really—about that. But no, I was as surprised about the title as you were. And why? With no obvious heir it was Aukust’s right to award it as he pleased. With the council decision coming any time now he couldn’t wait. Why me? I’m closest in blood to the Lumbeirt line. There are no cousins within seven degrees. Maybe a bastard’s better than a stranger. Or perhaps it was just a whim or a joke.”

Margerit laughed suddenly. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that he might have thought you were the best choice? After all, you’d just proven in front of the entire city that you’re brave and clever, you know the law like a scholar and you’re loyal both to Alpennia and to those you’ve given your word to.”

Barbara stopped the flood of praise with another kiss. “I think your own preference is showing.”

Too soon, they came into the
plaiz
and near the gates. Barbara signaled the coachman to stop. “I’ll ride the rest of the way. It’s better.”

“When will I see you again?” Margerit asked.

“I don’t know. There’s so much to be done and my time isn’t always my own.”

“I want to help.”

“I know.” Another kiss. “Be patient; that will help the most. When matters are more settled we can make plans.” One last kiss and a laugh. “Once I’ve clothed my nakedness and can start to accept invitations, no doubt we’ll be at some of the same parties.”

* * *

It was a tribute to the power of money and the hope of future custom that by the end of the next day she had received her riding clothes and a gown that would serve for daytime and all but the most formal of evening occasions. Also waiting when she returned from the day’s errands and obligations were letters from Margerit and LeFevre. She tore open Margerit’s first and found herself blushing. No,
that
was not something she wanted the pages to be viewing. LeFevre’s note was more somber.

I have made initial inquiries into the state of matters. What there is good of news is that it is not worse. Whatever Estefen’s personal debts may have been (and of course those are not tied to the title) he does not seem to have had the power to convince anyone to take the risk of adding to the existing mortgages. Those stand exactly as they did when he inherited. What is left to discover is the condition of the properties. That will need to wait until the Rotenek season closes, as I cannot leave my affairs here and will not trust the evaluation to another.

Well, that was no more than she expected. It would be a long road, but there would be an end to it.

In those first few days she had put off all invitations but those that were impossible to ignore. Now she sorted through the accumulation to see what could be done. It was essential to be seen but it was crucial to give no preference or appearance of preference in where she was seen and with whom. There was no telling what the future would bring and it was no time to burn any more bridges than were already in flames. Her first council meeting tomorrow, then a dinner evidently in her honor by Chozzik. He was an old friend of Marziel’s—that might be awkward, but a good tie to cultivate—and like most of the old men he leaned to the
Charteires
, supporting Annek’s sons on the strength of the marriage charter. Coming so soon after Duchess Annek, she would need several more on the princess’s side to balance. She amused herself by describing the process to Margerit as a means to sorting out the week’s schedule.
I’ve set out the invitations in columns by their preference in council and in rows by the day of the week. Alas, the two Atilliet cousins have both claimed me for Wednesday, but if I explain that I daren’t accept either for fear of offending the other perhaps I can slip away to Tiporsel. I can make no promises. The council seems to meet at whim, announced no sooner than the day before. I’d suspect him of playing with us but perhaps it’s no more than the vagaries of his health. Friday will be the opera, although I haven’t yet chosen a host. Dearest, would you be willing to accept an invitation from de Cherdillac if I convince her to host something? It would allow me an evening with you free of politics.

But it seemed impossible to steal as many moments as she wished. Life in the palace was as exposed as market day in the Plaizekil and excuses were scrutinized for significance. An unexpected hour of freedom carried no guarantee that Margerit would be home and Barbara steadfastly forbade her from sitting idle in hopes of a visit.
The council must conclude before the end of the Season,
she wrote.
Summer cannot come too soon.

Margerit’s responses carried less news and more longing.
Would that I could fold myself up in this paper and be carried to your chamber. Rotenek never seemed so vast before that we can both be here and yet so distant.

For the opera party, it must be one of Elisebet’s men and Estapez turned up at the top of the list. He’d had no connections to the guild: too old to run with Lutoz’s pack and too young to have sons who had. His wife played the gracious hostess for the dozen people watching from their box and kept the conversation to inconsequential matters. But at the interval Barbara followed him down the hall to a separate room where Princess Elisebet herself held forth. She had dressed in a gown of white and crimson—the Atilliet colors—and her dark curls peeked from beneath a turban that fell just short of seeming a crown. Every detail of her appearance was meant to claim what she needed to win instead.

There were few preliminaries. “You haven’t attended any of my little parties yet, Saveze. I’m disappointed.”

Barbara curtsied deeply. “Your Grace, I haven’t yet been invited to any of your little parties. But if I were, my schedule would suddenly be open.”

“Ah, an oversight. Come here and sit beside me.” Elisebet smiled in what she must have thought was an inviting manner, but it never reached her eyes. She patted the next chair and Barbara took it. “You’ve quite set the city on its head. The conquering heroine!”

“I hope your Grace refers to my case in law. If I may conquer in defense of the House of Atilliet, I will be content.”

“A house has many rooms,” she replied somewhat sharply. “So you’ve dined with the duchess. What did you think?”

It was crudely done. If this were how she wooed supporters for her son, he would need a miracle to prevail. “We discussed gardens, I believe. She was trying to remember the name of a flower that my father presented her at her wedding. That was well before I was born, of course, but I think it still grows in the gardens at Saveze.” It was true enough, if only a brief moment from that evening’s conversation.

The talk turned to other things for a time but Barbara kept her guard up. There was no mistaking this for mere pleasantries. When the topic came around again it was more pointed. “You would not be well served to fasten your hopes on the Austrian. Aukust may have forgiven your little friend, but Friedrich is unlikely to.”

Every word was a fencing match. Even the choice of names was a weapon in this skirmish. Elisebet lost no opportunity to call Annek’s sons foreign. Conrad, the young Duke of Maunberg, had declined the invitation to Alpennia but his brother had gone to the length of adopting an Alpennian form of his name. The
Charteires
were calling him Efriturik now and Barbara had been carefully dancing around the need to choose.

When she failed to respond, Elisebet said, “The Sovitre girl may need stronger friends than you. You don’t have the influence your father had to protect his favorites.”

It would have seemed a more sincere concern if it hadn’t been Elisebet’s partisans he’d been protecting them from. But at least she was disguising her interest as friendship rather than direct threat. Barbara affected as bored a tone as she thought would be believed. “Margerit Sovitre isn’t my concern any more.”

“That’s not the impression I had. Wasn’t it for her sake you accused poor Estefen? And I hear she’s been sending you little love notes every day.”

Barbara froze. She would have sworn the seals had not been tampered with—no, this wasn’t even a stab in the dark, only a joke. But clearly someone had been watching her correspondence carefully. She would warn Margerit to send letters by way of LeFevre. It would be unremarkable if she had daily correspondence with her estate manager. She tried to turn her hesitation into affronted disdain. “I think you have misunderstood the nature of my relationship with Maisetra Sovitre. For the past two years she owned my services. I had no choice in the matter. That’s finished. If I had a grudge against Estefen Chazillen, it was in my father’s name, not the Sovitre woman’s.”

“Ah, my mistake. What is it she writes, then?”

Barbara forced a laugh. “This and that: ‘Barbara, who should I hire to replace you? Barbara, where did you put my second-best cloak, the maid can’t find it.’ It might amaze you to know what falls under an armin’s duties.”

The answer seemed to satisfy her and she moved on to other arguments until the orchestra started again. Barbara rose and curtsied and noted that her hostess would be expecting her return, glancing expectantly at Mesner Estapez.

As they came out of the door of the box, she saw Margerit waiting for her a few steps down the corridor. Too quickly to be signaled away, she stepped forward, saying, “Barbara, I thought I saw you over here!”

With her host’s suspicious glance on her, Barbara thought frantically,
No! Play the game, Margerit! Play the game!
Aloud, she replied coldly, “Maisetra Sovitre. What a surprise. And how are you enjoying the opera?” It tore her heart to see Margerit’s mouth twist from an eager smile to half-open shocked dismay.

Margerit looked stunned only for a moment, then in the same coldly formal tone she answered, “I don’t care for it, Mesnera. I much preferred the Vittoriani from last year.”

That’s better!
With a stiff nod Barbara brushed on past.

“A trifle familiar for the ‘nature of the relationship’, don’t you think?” Estapez commented.

“Old habits fade slowly.” She didn’t dare to look back. “No doubt there was a misplaced bonnet this time.”

* * *

Before attending her first session of the succession council, Barbara had failed to understand how it was that the council could deliberate for months and fail to come any closer to a resolution. Now experience made it appallingly clear. Worse was to sit through the sessions when her feet longed to hurry down the Vezenaf.

It was laid down in law that every landed nobleman and his heir-default had the right to speak before the council on the merits of the claimants. But custom, rather than law, dictated that every point of law raised in those speeches must be pursued and verified. Every note of history must be tracked down in the annals. Every claim of contract and charter must be produced and documented. And every claimant had the right to respond to each of those points. Questions of the lineage of the claimants, of the precedents for indirect succession, of the nature of the princess Iohanna’s marriage contract—these had all long been settled. And long it had been. Now the arguments turned to the questions of experience and qualifications. There was plentiful fodder for all sides and tempers were getting shorter.